


Shadows

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Batman #50, Blood and Violence, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Spoilers, Suicide, Wedding Issue, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: In retrospect, it was for the best that Dick was there to witness it.  Had he not been, he might not have believed this was real.  It had barely felt real in the moment, watching Bruce plummet ten stories towards the ground and knowing he was far too late to do anything.  Hearing Alfred’s scream. Hearing the thud of impact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the other Batman fic and thought "you know what, I'm not sad enough." 
> 
> This story follows immediately after Batman #50. #51 works it all out, but I truly believe that Bruce wasn't jumping for fun at the end of the wedding issue. 
> 
> Written to the song "Shadows" by Red

In retrospect, it was for the best that Dick was there to witness it.  Had he not been, he might not have believed this was real. It had barely felt real in the moment, watching Bruce plummet ten stories towards the ground and knowing he was far too late to do anything.  Hearing Alfred’s scream. Hearing the thud of impact. 

 

The worst part wasn’t his head, which was cracked open and bleeding all over the sidewalk.  Dick had seen blood before. He wasn’t phased by that. 

 

He also wasn’t naive to death.  He’d see bodies laid still on the ground, no chance of them getting back up, no life in their too still, slack faces.  He’d be lucky to ever rid himself of that mental image, but perhaps it was useful in the end. Kept Dick from losing his mind while staring down at the body at his feet. 

 

No, the worst part was his legs, bent entirely the wrong way, crushed on impact and practically rubber.  Dick stood there, heart hammering hard enough to made his head spin, and stared down at the body before him, trying not to lose his mind. 

 

Alfred was still upstairs.  Alfred was on the rooftop ten stories above him with a stranger Dick didn’t recognize, and Dick was here on the ground.  He was twenty feet from the body in full Nightwing get-up, and he was absolutely useless.

 

He needed to get closer, check for a pulse, call in emergency services.  But making any sort of move would mean acknowledging this was real. Dealing with it meant there was something to deal with. 

 

Maybe if Dick stayed there, totally still, he could rewind and try again.  Run faster on his way here, not hesitate on the directions, get dressed faster, go onto Bruce’s roof top instead of the one across the street,  _ done something _ . Hell, he should have called Superman the second he’d had a bad feeling.

 

But Dick hadn’t done anything.  He hadn’t done anything, and he wasn’t doing anything, but it didn’t matter anyways.  Bruce was still dead.

 

The thought hit him full contact, a kick to the side of the head that had Dick stumbling back until his back hit a wall, until he lost his balance and let the back of his skull knock against the brick.  It stung, bright and painful, but Dick barely felt it as his legs gave out from under him. They lost strength, and he crumpled. His body armor was the only thing that saved his back from getting scratched to hell as he slid down the wall and hit the ground hard enough to bruise. 

 

With shaking hands, he fished his cell phone out of one of the concealed pockets on his suit and unlocked it.  He had to call emergency services, call 9-1-1. He got stuck on the number, not processing properly, but he eventually hit it in and held the phone up to his ear.  They roared with static.

 

“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end answered, professional and efficient.  Dick stared dumbly at the scene ahead of him, couldn’t tear his eyes away. It took him a moment to speak, and the dispatcher asked again. All these years as a vigilante, and he’d never once talked to a dispatcher.

 

“I, um,” he licked his lips, tried to get his mouth to work.  God damn it, Bruce had trained him for this. Trained him to deal with tragedy and accidents and emergencies, and Dick was  _ choking _ .  Bruce had trained him, and Bruce was dead, and Dick couldn’t get the words to come out right, and-  “I just witnessed a suicide,” he said, voice a rough whisper. His stomach tossed, and he had to swallow hard and take deep, measured breaths to keep the bile down. 

 

He rattled off his address when she asked for it, did his best to explain the situation. 

 

“He jumped off a building.  Yeah, ten stories or something.  He. I think his legs are broken.  He’s bleeding. Really bad. There’s a lot of blood everywhere.  I… I haven’t checked for a pulse. I can’t get close enough. I don’t…. I don’t know.  I should have. I should have gotten here sooner, I didn’t know he was going to….” 

 

Once she got him started, Dick couldn’t stop the flow of words that poured out of him.  Nervous chatter had always been his specialty. Dick watched Alfred round the corner, running faster than a man of his maturity should be able to.  He watched him stop, a good deal away. Watched him stand still for a long, long moment. Watched him fall to his knees. 

 

He was sitting in the middle of the street.  He was sitting in the middle of the street, and Dick was across on the sidewalk, and Bruce’s blood was running into the gutter and joining the sewage of Gotham.  

 

The dispatcher was asking questions, but Dick couldn’t focus enough to hear what she said.  He heard her voice, then he heard his own breathing. She told him to calm down. Dick’s chest seized with each breath, like he couldn’t loosen it to exhale.  Like he was running out of oxygen. Like he was drowning. Like. Like. 

 

A panic attack.  He was having a panic attack, and Bruce was dead, and Alfred was in the middle of the street.  Dick dropped the phone. He heard police sirens wailing in the distance. He needed to get a grip.  Needed to get a hold of himself before the police got here. He was Nightwing, the vigilante, not Dick Grayson-Wayne, the dead man’s son.  He needed to be in one piece. He needed to remember how to fucking  _ breathe _ . 

 

His vision swirled black, the ringing in his ears grew thunderous.  He was going to throw up. He couldn’t feel his hands. He was shaking- when the hell had he started shaking?  

 

Dick drew his knees up close and pitched himself forward, cradling his head between his knees and trying to convince himself that his lungs still worked, that his throat wasn’t closing up on him.  His head spun. His skin burned, and he ached to take off the layers separating him from the cool night air. 

 

He had to get a grip.  He had to-

 

The sirens pulled closer.  Dick couldn’t get a grip. He couldn’t….

 

He had to get out of there.  They’d see him, and they’d question him, and they’d think he’d pushed Bruce off the building or they’d know Bruce was his father or they’d-

 

Dick was running out of time.  

 

He scrambled to his feet, stumbling and barely catching himself.  He caught Alfred’s eye, shot a panicked look between him and the alley beside them.  Alfred followed his gaze, looked back to Dick’s eyes, and nodded. Once. 

 

Go. 

 

Dick ran.  He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, feet pounding painfully against the pavement and tired muscles screaming at him.  It felt like his bones were splintering under the pressure. It felt like his hands and feet were full of fire. 

 

It felt.  It felt more dangerous than usual to shoot out a grappling hook and high tail his way up the wall, but he shut out the quiet voice in his brain saying that one slip would be easy.  That he and Bruce would have the same fate. He shut that out and hauled himself over the ledge, form messy, hands slipping and shoulders screaming at him. 

 

He hauled himself over and landed flat on his back on the finished roof top below him.  The night sky was dark and star-less, light pollution painting everything green and ruining the atmosphere.  It hadn’t been like this when he’d traveled the countryside as a child, setting up camp at the edges of cities where the stars still shone, too many to even imagine counting. It was like that at Uncle Clark’s house too.  He should go out there. Pay them a visit. 

 

Tell them Bruce was dead. 

 

Dick pressed his eyes shut as tight as he could manage and clenched his fists.  He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t think about it. About the pool of blood flowing from him, the pale face, the open eyes, the legs bent up and behind him like disregarded tubing.  

 

Don’t think, don’t think, don’t- 

 

Dick opened his eyes and stared at the sky again.  He’d left Alfred there alone to deal with this. That wasn’t fair.  He shouldn’t have- He ought to- 

 

He couldn’t bear to go back there.  Couldn’t handle seeing him again. Couldn’t be seen in this suit, not when this was a civilian affair.  He’d get the call in a few hours (or Alfred would get tasked with telling them), and he’d pretend to be surprised, and he’d have enough of a handle on his emotional state to help everyone else work through it. 

 

Everyone else… son of a bitch.

 

He couldn’t think about it.  Needed to calm down. He was going to have a heart attack at this rate, with the way his chest literally jumped with each rapid heart beat.  He focused his eyes on the sky above him, forced himself to count the few spare stars that appeared. He got to seven, lost count, and started over. 

 

He could do this.  Count his breaths, start over. 

 

He could do this. 

 

He could-

 

“How long have you been up here?” 

 

Dick blinked and it felt like he was falling.  He jerked awake, sitting up rapidly and nearly losing his balance.  Commissioner Gordon stood there, hands shoved into pockets and face neutral.  Good ol’ Gordon, the same after all these years.

 

“I-” Behind Gordon was the bat signal.  Figures he’d go somewhere familiar. Figures he’d go somewhere he could be found.  

 

“I take it you know what happened.” 

 

Dick went to answer.  He swallowed, and his dry tongue stuck to his throat.  He settled for nodding. 

 

Gordon nodded once, eyes downcast and face painted with sympathy.  Maybe empathy. He and Bruce had been friends too. He was one of few outside the family to know the truth about anything. 

 

“You’re wanted at home,” he said.  “Alfred stayed long enough to watch the body off and give a report.  With the witness there, it’s pretty cut and dry. Especially with the note in his pocket.” 

 

Dick’s head jerked up at that. “Note?” he croaked, and didn’t recognize his own voice.  Gordon studied him carefully, nodded slowly. 

 

“We think it’s a suicide note.  It was written to Selina.” 

 

He didn’t have enough cognitive resources to handle this information.  Selina had disappeared from the manor earlier that evening, dress and all, but Dick hadn’t thought much of it.  Tim had noticed it, asked him to keep an ear open, but they didn’t actually stop and pay attention until Bruce and Alfred disappeared as well.  

 

It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to figure out they were eloping. 

 

At least, that’s what they’d thought….  

 

They had to be, right? Why else would Bruce have taken Alfred with him?  

 

That had to be what they’d been planning.  It had to be. For Selina to disappear with her dress, and Bruce to walk out in his tux.  To be on the roof of the building they’d first met (as if Dick didn’t know that story, as if it wasn’t Bruce’s go to if he got drunk enough).  To… to jump off the building where they’d first met. 

 

Dick wasn’t sure.  He wasn’t sure what they were planning or what had gone wrong.  He’d never been as good a detective as Bruce. Had been learning from him since day one, had never really mastered it.  Not in his own opinion. 

 

And now.  

 

Well, now he’d never get the chance. 

 

Before Dick’s thoughts could spiral any further, Gordon cleared his throat and caught his attention.  Dick blinked the sting from his eyes and raised his head, glancing up at the man before remembering his manners and shoving himself to his feet.  

 

He leaned back against the short wall he’d been sitting against in order to keep his balance.  Glancing to his left, he noticed how far up they were from the ground. How easy it would be to slip. 

 

His stomach churned, and he purposefully turned his head back to look at Gordon.  He found the older man staring at him studiously, unreadable expression on his face.  Dick felt guilty, like he’d just been caught at something. He wasn’t sure what.

 

“You know,” Gordon said, not quite meeting his eye.  “If Batman were to die with Bruce Wayne….”

 

Gordon didn’t have to finish the statement.  Batman’s untimely disappearance would put all of them in jeopardy. Dick had realized Batman was gone (probably permanently this time).  He just hadn’t thought of what that meant for Gotham. For the family. 

 

“I’ll take care of it,” Dick said, already seeing the ridiculous expression on Jason’s face.  He called it ‘playing dress up.’ Tim wouldn’t like it either. Dick couldn’t imagine how Damian would feel about Dick taking up the cowl again. 

 

A problem for later.  Gordon said, “Thank you,” and then, “Let me give you a ride home, yeah?” 

 

Yeah, for the best perhaps.  Steph and Cass were out on patrol tonight, and Jason had a pretty firm hand on Crime Alley these days.  Nobody would even notice Batman’s absence in the trade over, especially not with the drama following the death of the richest man in Gotham. 

 

Besides, Dick was pretty much useless in this state.  He could afford to take a night off. 

 

He wasn’t sure he could make himself go home, though. 

 

“Actually…” he said, “Could you drop me off somewhere else?” 

  
  


\-------

  
  


Dick didn’t even have to ring the buzzer before the front door of the clock tower was clicking open.  “Come on up,” Barbara’s voice came out crackly through the cheap speaker. Dick blinked, hand stilling in mid air, and took a moment to puzzle through her words before pushing the door open. 

 

He opted out of the elevator, instead clomping up five flights of stairs to her living area.  There was another lock at the door, but he’d learned the access code ages ago. He typed it in, and frowned at the negatory series of beeps the machine spit out at him.  He went to type it in again, but was startled back by the door swinging open.

 

“I change it bi-monthly,” she said, leaning against the door jam and grinning at him.  “What do you take me for, an amateur?” 

 

He scraped up enough effort for a chuckle, but the energy didn’t laugh.  It quickly fell out of him, and he felt himself plummeting like- well, like falling off a building.

 

“Whoa,” Barbara said, “You okay?” 

 

He wasn’t, and Barbara caught on fast, opening the door and practically pulling him inside as he stumbled forward.  She kicked it closed behind them, and Dick didn’t know what quite happened, but he found himself sitting on her couch.  She disappeared for a moment, and then she was pressing a glass of water into his hands. 

 

An actual glass, too, which was impressive.  The only dishes he had in his apartment were give-away coffee mugs and some tupperware he’d forgotten to return to Alfred. 

 

“Sip,” she ordered, and he obeyed.  

 

This was why he came here, he figured.  As much as he’d fucked things up over the years, things were simpler with Barbara. 

 

“You’re really out of it, huh?” she asked, sitting next to him.  She took the glass away when it became apparent that he wasn’t doing anything else with it, and she set it on the coffee table. 

 

“Check the news,” he croaked, staring at the floor and feeling the couch shift as she pulled out her cell phone.  The silence that followed in the next few minutes was hard enough to pin Dick to the sofa. 

 

She put her phone down and didn’t speak.  She did reach up, put a hand around his back and squeezed his shoulder.  He sagged into it, falling into her and letting his head fall on her shoulder. 

 

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, the silence expanding and filling the apartment like a thick fog, the weight of leaning against each other the only thing keeping him upright. 

 

“What am I going to do?” he asked eventually, when time had stretched itself into anonymity.  It could have been hours or minutes. Dick closed his eyes and found himself waking again every few moments.  

 

Barbara shifted against him, her cheek pressing against the top of his head.  He wasn’t sure if it felt comforting or suffocating. 

 

“You’ll do what you have to,” she answered.  “You’re a detective. You’ll figure it out.” 

 

Dick sighed heavily and pulled away, sagging back against the couch and slouching until the cushions could have swallowed him whole.  He wished they would. 

 

“World’s greatest detective, I suppose.” 

 

A warm hand settled on his knee and squeezed.  “Sometimes you have to be.” 

 

Dick nodded, sighed, let his heavy eyes slip shut.  He was still in his suit, the only thing missing was his domino.  He’d put it… somewhere. Taken it off during his conversation with Gordon, probably.  Where’d he put it? 

 

Damn, if Bruce knew he was out there walking around in his suit without his mask….

 

Damn. 

 

“Come on, dummy,” Barbara said, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

 

“I’ll take the couch,” he answered, because he was smart enough not to press his luck.  Because Alfred had raised a gentleman.

 

Poor Alfred…. Dick ought to go home and lend a hand.  He needed to… he needed to check on the boys, and Cassie, and someone had to let Jason know.  That would be one hell of a conversation. He needed to….

 

“Get up, come here.  I have some of your stuff hanging around still, I think.”  

 

Well, that was a surprise.  Dick climbed to his feet and followed her towards her bed out of curiosity alone, found himself being pelted with an old t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts.  He held the shirt out in front of him and frowned. 

 

“This isn’t mine,” he said.  Barbara looked it over. She nodded.

 

“Yeah, that’s Harper’s.  Got it at a concert, or… something.  Hurry up, get to bed. I’m tired.” 

 

And well, as much as Dick wanted to be a gentleman, and as many reservations as he had, Dick couldn’t resist the temptation of sleeping next to a warm body.  Not after a night like tonight. Not when he felt so… awful. 

 

He curled up under the covers, taking the pillow he’d always been allotted when he’d stayed over before.  He meant to keep his distance, give her privacy, but as soon as the lights were off he felt an arm wrapping around his waist and the soft material of her pajama pants against the backs of his legs.  

 

He sighed, tried to relax, tried not to see the same horrible scene every time he shut his eyes. 

 

“Sleep,” she said, fingers carding through his hair, and well…  things were always easier with Barbara, and he couldn’t find it in him to disobey.  He let his eyes shut and before he knew it, he was out like a light. 

 

He didn’t feel her get out of bed, didn’t hear her on the phone.  He wouldn’t know what she was doing, the arrangements she was making and the loose ends she was taking care of.  Barbara had always been good at those things, at arrangements and information and documents. He’d keep up his end in the morning, keep the family together and help them regroup. 

 

He’d find a way to cope, reconcile everything that had happened that night.  He’d dig his way out of it, learn to breathe again. One day, maybe, he’d forget what he’d seen that night.  The nausea in his gut would pass. He’d forgive himself for mistakes that weren’t his to make. 

 

He’d pick up the mantel and do what Bruce had raised him for. 

 

Bruce’s job wasn’t done, though.  Dick had thought so, once upon a time when Dick was young and stupid and Bruce was overprotective, but Dick would have done anything to have that back.  He couldn’t believe Bruce had done this to him. Done this to all of them. 

 

Left them entirely in the dark, trusting them to work from the shadows without him.

 

Dick just hoped they didn’t get lost in them.


	2. Tim and Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He never ignores my calls. Something happened to him,” Damian replied, voice edging towards frantic. Tim wasn’t feeling it. He wasn’t feeling much of anything, actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna be a oneshot, but Bludwing98 and shejams left lovely comments that made me realize it couldn't just end there. So there's going to be several parts, each named after the primary characters in the fic as the trauma works its way through the batfamily.

Damian paced the kitchen with his cell phone clutched in his hand, Titus following at his heels.  Every time he turned and switched directions, Titus would turn to mope after him, knocking his tail into Tim’s knees.  Alfred had gotten in late the night prior and hadn’t gone to bed until well into the morning, so he wasn’t there to tell Tim to sit at the table like a civilized person and stop disrespecting his counters.  Tim took full advantage of the situation by sitting up on the counter, hands curled around an untouched coffee cup, eyes stick to apparently deranged youngest member of their family. He drummed his heels lazily against the cabinets.

 

“He’s not  _ answering _ ,” Damian snapped, pulling the phone from his ear and redialing.  Tim tipped his head back against the cabinets. 

 

“He’s sleeping,” Tim repeated for what had to be the fifth time.  Damian wasn’t listening to him. Not that Damian  _ ever _ listened to him, but Tim could hold out hope. 

 

“He never ignores my calls.  Something happened to him,” Damian replied, voice edging towards frantic.  Tim wasn’t feeling it. He wasn’t feeling much of  _ anything _ , actually.  Alfred had broken the news last night.  He’d parked the batmobile in the cave and sat there, silently, for a long time as Tim and Damian sat at the computer and stared. 

 

Tim hadn’t meant to involve Damian.  He’d called up Dick when he noticed the strange behavior, because if anyone could be trusted to handle Bruce, it was Dick.  He had more experience than any of them, more resources, and frankly- more of Bruce’s trust. Afterall,  _ Dick  _ was the one invited to the bachelor party.   _ Dick _ was the one buzzing around hoping to be best man.

 

But there was no hiding anything from the demon, which was how Tim ended up spending the greater part of the night with him, listening to their comm line and the scanners and watching everyone’s locations ping off on the monitor.  It was more interesting for a while to watch Jason’s dot get tossed around in the harbor and wonder what the hell he was doing out there in the first place. 

 

Then something went wrong.  Dick cut his comms off, ran off into the night.  A call came through the police scanners requesting emergency services for a reported suicide. 

 

Tim didn’t catch the code at first, or maybe he didn’t want to believe it.  He double checked that 10-56 meant what he thought it did, and then triple checked the address.  He sat back silently, staring dumbly at the computer screen as Dick’s dot took off and Bruce’s stayed absolutely still. 

 

Damian was far too bright for his own good.  He caught on as fast as Tim did, and Tim couldn’t do much of anything as he raged next to him, throwing his arms around and running every scenario through out loud, trying to reason their way around this.

 

It could have been someone else.  Yeah, that was true. It could be a misunderstanding.  It could be… it could be a lot of things, but then Alfred came home and Tim could tell just by the look on his face that they’d run clean out of options. 

 

That didn’t stop Damian from sprinting over the second the car door opened and demanding to know what happened.  Tim practically had to pull him back, because Alfred was far too pale and looked far too shaken. Alfred wasn’t shaken by anything.  But this… this was new. 

 

He sagged against the car and rubbed a hand over his eyes.  He noticeably steeled himself, and it was with a calm and steady voice that he explained what had happened. 

Selina ditched him at the altar.  Bruce jumped off the building. He was dead, for good this time.  It was certainly a shock to all of them. Perhaps they ought to turn in, it was awfully late….

 

In the end, Tim helped Alfred get settled in bed the way Alfred had for all of them over the years.  Then he’d gone searching for Damian again, found him sitting forlornly in Bruce’s chair in the cave. 

 

He hadn’t known what to say, so he’d just sat with him, doing his best to wrap his head around what was happening.  It gnawed at his gut like a parasite, and every breath felt just a bit too shallow. He was honestly grateful when Damian snapped out of his stupor and started storming about, because it gave him some sort of distraction from himself. 

 

His thoughts kept hitting a brick wall few minutes, whether he was thinking about it or not.  Thinking about it was unproductive, because he couldn’t puzzle out a ‘why,’ so he kept running headfirst into “Bruce is dead,” and starting over from square one.  He tried thinking about the implications, the consequences they would have to deal with. Did Bruce have a will? He had to, yeah, but what did it say? Were there separate wills for Bruce and for Batman, or was their only Bruce? How did one even access a will?  Did Bruce have a lawyer? Did the lawyer know about Batman? Was Jason on the will? 

 

Oh shit, who was going to tell Jason that-

 

Fuck.  Bruce is dead. 

 

Start over from square one and run in circles forever.  As the sun dragged across the morning sky Tim found himself running ragged.  His thought process became a broken record playing the same statement, and then Damian said he was calling Dick.  Dick would know what was going on. 

 

Tim knew from watching Dick run himself  _ literally _ ragged that he wouldn’t have a better handle on this than they did, but he also knew that if he didn’t get out of his head he was going to lose his damn mind.  So he followed Damian to the kitchen and made himself some coffee and watched Damian lose his mind instead. 

 

“He’s not- he’s….” Damian came to a stop in the middle of the kitchen, phone playing the same old ‘Hey, this is Dick! Leave a message!’ as he dropped it to his side.  He stood, motionless, for a long moment before he snapped into action. A scream ripped from his throat. The phone flew across the room. It hit the wall, cracked and shattered, and bounced off the floor. 

 

Tim watched in silent amazement as tears rolled down Damian cheeks, his face growing increasingly red, his hands clenched so hard they were shaking. 

 

“Hey…” Tim said, voice hesitant.  He set his cup aside and slid off the counter, not quite sure what to do with himself, what to do to help.  If there  _ was _ a way to help. 

 

Lucky for him, it was at that moment that the front door opened.  Titus barked and took off down the hallway, and in that moment Alfred’s voice could be heard calling out from somewhere nearby, “What in heaven’s name is happening in there?”

 

Damian took off after Titus towards the front door.  Tim followed more slowly and bumped into Alfred on his way there.  

 

“What happened?” Damian shouted at a bedraggled Dick Grayson when Tim and Alfred neared the front door.  “I refuse to believe that father would- would  _ conduct _ himself in such a… I mean, you cannot seriously expect me to believe-” 

 

“Damian,” Tim called out tiredly, wishing the kid would give it a break for once.  Especially with the way Dick’s shoulders were sagging and the shine that was appearing over his eyes. 

 

“It’s true, Lil D,” Dick whispered.  “He’s dead, but it’s gonna be-” He reached out for Damian as he spoke, but Damian was having none of it.  That confirmation was all it took for him to snap, shoving Dick back when he stepped closer and taking off down the hallway.  Dick froze. Tim watched him go. They listened to his footsteps thunder carelessly out of the house until the backdoor slammed in his wake.

 

“He’ll be okay,” Dick spoke again, wringing his hands.  “He… he just needs time to process, and it’ll be fine. It’s… Alfred?” 

 

They used to joke that, if Alfred was any less British he’d hug them.  Alfred had accepted hugs in the past, but he was always very polite about it.  As far as anyone could remember, Alfred had never initiated a hug. 

 

And here he was, crossing the short distance between them and pulling Dick into his arms.  Dick, being the way he was, melted immediately. He buried his face in Alfred’s shoulder and clutched onto the back of his house robe like his life depended on it.  Alfred hugged back just as tight, and Tim found himself feeling very much like an outsider. 

 

He left silently, walking on cat feet across the house and to the kitchen window, where he could see Damian throwing a right fit in the backyard.  In a rare moment of him both looking and acting his age, Damian threw himself around the backyard, swinging a branch erratically and going at the old oak tree like it was personally responsible for killing his father. 

 

Oh God.  Bruce was  _ dead _ . 

 

Tim knew he should have felt something,  _ anything _ .  But Tim felt nothing but hollow.  Didn’t know how to fix that. He needed… he needed sleep.  He needed to go back in time, or to go forward and see how everything shook out.  He needed… he….

 

“What is happening…?” an unmistakable voice asked from the doorway.  Tim’s head snapped up to find Cass standing in the doorway from the batcave, still dressed in full costume despite Alfred’s rule banning anything but civilian clothes in the manor. 

 

“Why sad?” she asked, eying Tim critically.  It really hit him for the first time that morning that in order to deal with this situation, he’d have to actually talk about it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's hard, y'know? Missing him. I wasn't even the favorite or anything. Not like you or-"

The song Viva la Vida came on the radio, and Dick burst into tears. Jason had not seen someone moved so violently by Coldplay since 2007, but hell. It had been a weird week.

He didn't want to be there in the first place. In fact, if someone had told him a year ago that he'd be cheering up Dick Grayson and planning Bruce's funeral he would have laughed in their face.

Yet here he was. Planning Bruce's funeral. Trying to cheer up Dick Grayson. Failing pretty miserably at both.

"You want me to drive...?" Jason asked hesitantly, only fearing for his life a bit as Dick mopped furiously at the water gathering on his cheeks. He stiffened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

"No," he said, short and bitter and totally unlike him. Or, no. Not totally. Jason had definitely seen Dick like this before. It was just easy to forget that the try-hard had a dark side.

"Mmmkay," Jason hummed. He reached down and fished through a pit of fast food wrappers to grab the bar and shove his seat back as far as it would go, then stretched his back and kicked his boots up on the dash. He watched a muscle in Dick's jaw twitch.

"Get down," he muttered, and Jason elected to ignore him. Instead he pulled his phone out of his pocket and read through the group text. Roy and Starfire were worried about him or something. They were trying very hard to make sure Jason wasn't left alone long with his thoughts, even though Jason was probably handling this better than anybody. Which was ironic. He could confess that. When it came to this sort of thing, none of them handled it very well, but Jason handled it worse than most in his own humble opinion.

It was sweet of his team to be concerned, even if it was entirely unnecessary.

"Jason...." Dick ground out. Full first name. That was new. He was such a fan of nicknames these days. Jason yawned, bounced his knee, let his boot knock against the glass of the windshield and leave a smudge.

Dick slammed on the breaks.

Jason lurched forward and was properly strangled by his seatbelt. His phone flew from his hands and got lost somewhere under the seat as the car jerked forward and then back, tires squealing as they flew to a halt. It took Jason a minute to right himself from where he'd fallen, butt hanging off the edge of the seat and upper body barely held in place with the belt around his throat. He struggled upright, slamming his thumb into the seatbelt button to free himself and banging his knee on the window on the way up.

"What the  _fuck_ , asshole!?" he snapped, socking Dick generously on the arm.  "You could have broken my fucking legs!" 

Dick was a barely contained vessel of rage next to him.  He was gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles were white and his arms were trembling.  He was grinding his teeth hard enough for them to crack, and his eyes stared straight ahead and laser focused.  He didn't respond.  Jason scoffed. 

"You trying to kill us too?" he snapped, and just like that Dick was moving.  His coordination was incredibly lacking as he took several attempts to get his seatbelt undone, but when he finally did he slammed the car into park, punched the door open, and stormed away without bothering to close the door.  Jason gaped at the empty space he'd occupied just a moment before, then twisted to look out the back window.  Saw Dick stomping away, no intention to stopping.  God damn it. 

He took the key from the ignition and took off after him, jogging to catch up.  He'd just made it, was just close enough to put his hand on Dick's shoulder, when Dick flinched away from him and took off like a bullet, running like his life depended on it. 

Jason was too fucking sleep deprived for this.  "Hey!" he shouted, sprinting after him.  "Get your skinny ass back here, Grayson, I mean it!  I'm not chasing you all over Gotham!" 

And he  _wasn't_.  If Jason hadn't caught up with him three blocks later, he definitely would have left his ass to wander off alone.  Dick was a big boy.  He could take care of himself.  Jason was already extending his compassion past typical levels by agreeing to do this in the first place. 

So maybe he was feeling just a little vindictive when he finally caught up to him on the sidewalk outside a laundromat and launched himself into a flying tackle that took them both down hard.  The fall was a little less than graceful.  Grayson knocked his head into the cement and hissed out a breath through his teeth, but that didn't slow him down for even a split second.  He tried to toss Jason off of him, tried to punch him in the face, strike him in the neck.  Tried to wriggle out of it, throwing elbows and knees and swear words like they were going out of style. 

It was sloppy and definitely not how they were trained to fight.  Luckily, Jason had paid attention to these lessons.  It wasn't too much effort to get Dick's wrists in hand and pinned to the sidewalk, his heels under the small of Dick's back, crushed between him and the sidewalk so Dick had to stop trying to bridge him off.  Dick glared up at him, furious and panting, a patch of red lines on his cheek where he's scraped against the sidewalk during his struggles.  Jason stared down at him, holding as tight as he could and puzzling over what he was supposed to do next. 

"You done fighting me?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow and eying Dick carefully.  "I'm going to let you up.  You hit me and I'll knock your ass out and take you home in the trunk, I swear to God." 

Dick nodded mutely, looking subdued enough that Jason ever-so-slowly released his vice-like grip on Dick's wrists and started to ease up.  That was, until Dick's hand shot out and clutched onto his arm in return, making Jason flinch and pulling him back down until Dick could wrap his arms around him and hold on like a boa constrictor, the two of them once again crushed against the pavement.  

Jason was ready to make true of his threats and beat the ever-living shit out of him when he noticed that Dick was shaking.  Or, not shaking, but his shoulders were hitching and instead of trying to  _do_ anything, he was just burrowing his face into the side of Jason's neck and.  Oh.  Oh shit.  God damn it. Fuck. 

"Come here," Jason said, hauling them both upright and into a less racy position.  It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday after all, and the stream of people passing by seemed at least mildly judgmental about whatever was going on there. 

Dick didn't let go of him the whole trip upwards, and it was a good thing Jason was strong.  He ended up in a situation he'd never imagined for himself, with his older brother having a nervous breakdown in his lap while he was forced to try and ignore the people of Gotham who shot him damning looks as they passed.  

"I feel like I'm losing my mind every ten minutes," Dick murmured finally, putting words to whatever was going on in his weirdo head.  Jason sighed and squeezed him a little tighter, just for a moment. 

"Time to take you to Arkham, then."

It didn't take too much longer until they were back to the car, shooing homeless people away from it and glaring at the ticket placed glumly under the windshield wiper.  "How dare they?" Jason asked, in his best imitation of Damian.  "Don't they  _know_ who we  _are_!?" 

 

\-------

 

 

The moment on the sidewalk, as strange as the whole affair had been, was the bandaid Dick apparently needed to put himself back together.  He wasn't Dick again, not yet, but he also wasn't clinging to people and sobbing into their shoulder.  He knew nobody else had really put anything together.  After all, he'd lost his shit with everyone individually up until this point.  There were no public displays of embarrassment to point the finger at his pretty obvious nervous breakdown.  So what if Barbara, Alfred, Jason, and Commissioner Gordon all thought he was fraying at the edges individually.  So long as they didn't put all of their events together, it would be fine. 

And it would be fine, because  _Dick_ was fine.  He had a job to do, and he was always better when following assignments.  

Current assignment: keep the family together, keep Batman on the streets, and keep a close eye on Damian who was probably taking this worse than Dick was, somehow.  

First things first, they had a pretty public funeral to take care of.  They had patrols and an entire city to fool.  Dick could keep himself sane if he kept himself distracted.  The key was never giving himself time to slow down.

Yeah, he could handle that.

 

\--------

 

 

Of all people to have a panic attack at the funeral, Duke wasn't expecting it to be him.  He'd expected it to be Dick, to be honest. He wasn't doing nearly as good a job as he thought he was at hiding his misery.  Even when he had the stoic and manly mourning thing going on, it was so out of character that everyone just knew to give him a wide girth and also as many comforting looks as they could manage to sneak in.  It was either supposed to be Dick, or Damian- who was already known for emotional outbursts, being, y'know, a child.  

It could have been Alfred too, maybe.  Alfred had the best excuse of anyone to be absolutely losing his mind.  He'd known Bruce the longest- had raised him for Christ's sake.  He'd probably planned on never having to actually, truly bury his ward, Batsuit and nightlife be damned. Then again, maybe Alfred had always known this was a possibility.  Maybe he really was as strong as they all thought he was. 

Duke, though.  Duke didn't have an excuse for this behavior.  He was Bruce's student at best, and he'd spent years trying and failing to live up to Bruce's expectations.  He knew that.  Bruce had a weakness for charity cases, and Duke wasn't going to entertain fantasies of family or whatever.  The others, though.  They should have rightfully been losing their minds.  Dick was Bruce's first robin, one of his oldest friends.  Bruce had practically saved Jason off the streets, had to find him dead, struggled his way back through reparations between the two of them.  Cassandra had always been Bruce's favorite, everyone knew that.  Tim was the smartest, the boy wonder that knew exactly where his place was and carved it out himself.  Damian was actually, flesh and blood, his child. 

Duke was... just a bystander, and it was absolutely insane to hyperventilate in the church basement during your teacher's funeral.  Duke didn't even know where he was, just knew he'd stumbled down a countless amount of stairs while trying not to throw up and had collapsed somewhere soft and slightly elevated.  He saw soft grey bricks under his feet when he opened his eyes, but nothing he was looking at made sense.  He was pretty sure he was dying. 

It was classic panic attack symptoms.  Nausea, tremblings, hyperventilating, light-headedness, pounding heart.  That knowledge was the only thing assuring him that he wasn't actually dying, even if it felt like it. 

And what was wrong with him anyways?  Duke was the  _signal_.  He was the  _light_.  He was optimism and hope for a better Gotham.  He was supposed to be a leader and a hero, but all he felt was crazy, small, and scared. 

A hand on his shoulder out of thin air scared the hell out of him.  He flinched, jumping away and whipping his head up to stare at the intruder, just to find Stephanie staring down at him with sad eyes and a hand still extended.  

"Hey," she said, plopping down next to him.  Dick finally got a look at his surroundings.  Found himself sitting on a kneeling rack in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary.  There had to be something disrespectful about that, he figured, but he didn't trust his legs to support him if he stood. 

"Was Bruce catholic?" Duke found himself asking, as if it mattered.  Steph raised an eyebrow, glanced around, and shrugged one shoulder.  The strap of her dress was sliding off her shoulder from the way she was sitting, shoulders curled in and arms braced on her knees.  

"I think you have to be," she said.  "To have your funeral here.  Even if you're Bruce Wayne, y'know?" 

"Why are you down here?" Duke asked, ashamed of how rude he was being but not knowing how to control it.  Steph shrugged again.  Her dress slipped further.  She didn't seem to notice. 

"Kate saw you run out," she explained.  "Wanted someone to check up on you." 

Duke's heart sank. "Oh...." 

"It's hard, y'know?  Missing him.  I wasn't even the favorite or anything.  Not like you or-" 

Duke scoffed, and Stephanie immediately stopped and shot him a look.  "What?" she asked. 

"Oh come on," he replied. He rubbed his hand over his face.  "You've known him for.... ever.  I'm not... he's-" 

"Dude, you're one of the few that didn't even have to fight to get his attention.  Dick, Tim, Cass, even Damian... We had to fight to get into the spotlight, y'know?  But you.  He just picked you.  You and Jason.  He just decided you guys were worthy enough.  The rest of us have spent all this time just trying to convince him." 

Duke didn't know what to say to that, mostly because it didn't seem like it could be true.  He felt like he needed to say something nice, something to disagree with her.  Tell her Bruce loved her and she'd had his attention, she didn't have to do anything for it.  But...  well, he was down here with his own insecurities right now.  He already knew that wasn't true. 

At least he was feeling better. 

"Let's go back upstairs," he said, standing and dusting off his pants.  He cast a glance at the mother Mary and bowed his head in reverence.  It was the least he could do after turning her... altar, or whatever, into a couch.  "Before Kate comes and tracks us down." 

Stephanie nodded.  "Her or Alfred." 

And it was nice, after feeling alone in all of this, to have someone to walk back in with.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me. let's be sad together.


End file.
